The proof was in the pudding: I was actually disappointed to see the breakfast tray, because it was where Max should have been. Compared to waking up next to him, breakfast in bed by myself was a down-and-out bummer.

I was in this thing, and I was in it deep. And I loved it.

Closing my eyes tight against the sunshine, I thought back to last night. All those I love yous had swirled around in my dreams. I hadn’t heard the words but seen them, like they’d been written in the sky. All night I dreamed of nothing but happy, delightful memories. Of him, me, and the lifetime of things we had already shared. But also, the many things I was still discovering—the way he made love, the secret sides, all the things below the surface. They lured me under like a penny shining at the bottom of the pool.

The smell of the freshly brewed coffee, though, was enough to pull me out of the pool that was Max. I rubbed my eyes and sat up against the headboard, sipping some still-warm coffee, pre-sugared and the color of khakis. Just like I liked it.

Julia Caesar looked up at me from the floor, and I patted the mattress. She snapped her head away and considered an outlet by the bookshelf. For some reason—maybe because I’d spent such a magical night and was waking up to yet another magical, sparkling morning—her response made a switch flip inside me. I’d just about had it with her cranky, unpredictable nonsense. I’d just about had it with this I-wasn’t-looking-at-you routine. So I leveled with her. “Listen, you old broad. Knock that off. Let me be your friend.”

Her big, gold eyes darted up at me, and she held my stare for one second, then two. A world record for us. It was like she’d understood me. Finally.

Because I talked dirty to her? Gave her some attitude? Got a little bitchy? No, it couldn’t be.

So I tried again. It didn’t seem right to be rude to her—she was too distinguished, too old, too crabby. I couldn’t be nasty to Henry Kissinger’s feline doppelganger, I just couldn’t. So again, I went for the friendly approach. “Who’s a good girl?”

She stared at the heating vent.

“Don’t be so cranky, you old battle-ax.”

She looked up at me with utter, wide-eyed adoration.

Holy smokes.

So I patted the mattress again. “Come on, you salty little hussy,” I whispered. Her tail came up in a curlicue, and she jumped up beside me. Her purrs made vibrations against my leg, like the buzzing of a phone. “Good girl,” I cooed, and the purring stopped.

Holy mother. Was this the answer? Had I cracked her code? Did Julia Caesar like…dirty talk? “Naughty little brat,” I whispered. She rolled onto her back in utter pleasure.

As I scratched her soft, slightly squishy belly, I thought back to my gram. I never, ever remembered her calling Julia anything particularly endearing. In fact, there’d been quite a bit of just ignore the old broad.

From my bedside table, I took my phone and snapped a photo of Julia licking her paws. I sent it to Max with the caption:

She likes dirty talk, Max. I called her a hussy, and she rolled over!

But he didn’t answer right away, or even after a few sips of coffee. I didn’t even get his yummy typing dots, and I wondered where he might be.

Please tell me you went to get donuts. I’d kill for a Boston cream.

That got an answer, after a moment. Which was:

I let out a purr that made Julia’s ears prick up. “Sorry. That wasn’t meant for you.” I let my phone plop down into the covers and lay back against the pillows. I took a slice of peanut butter toast and tore off a piece of crust for Julia. “He’s bringing me something better than donuts, you crotchety old queen,” I told her. “Can you believe it?”

Which she answered with a purr so deep and so happy, it vibrated the springs in the mattress.

Snuggled up in the sheets, I kept my coffee in my lap, clutched in both hands. I closed my eyes and listened for the sound of Max’s truck. Julia fell asleep in record time, filling the air with a faint and totally adorable snore. I was so comfy, and her snores were so mesmerizing, that I must have fallen asleep…because the next thing I knew, I’d spilled my coffee into my lap.

“Oh God,” I gasped and jumped up, sending Julia scampering for the windowsill and knocking over the bud vase with its freshly cut rose, too.

“Why, why, why,” I muttered, standing horrified as coffee dripped off my nightie onto the floor. I tried to soak up as much of it as possible with the napkin Max had left on the tray, but it didn’t make a dent. Holding the wet fabric in my hand, with creamy coffee dripping from between my fingers and spilling down my legs, I stepped out into the hallway to grab a spare towel from the linen closet.

But just as I did, I heard a snarl, a bark, a thump, and what sounded like a burglar downstairs.

I spun around and saw what I’d done.

I’d left the bedroom door wide open.

Uh-oh.